these stairs lead to nowhere
by naojv
Summary: "I don't want to let go," she tells him near the end of week nine. "I think it's around that time where you either let go, or you let yourself become obsessed." She watches him with a steady gaze. "And I don't want to let go."


"They're long gone," he tells her, looking carefully around the apartment. Blood bags. That's all they have to go on.

"Then we have to find them." Her voice breaks. He pretends he didn't hear it.

"We will." He turns around, ready to lead them back out the door. She doesn't need to see any of this, they can gather what occurred here with having to analyze every detail -

he stumbles.

She's there, an arm around his waist. "Are you okay?"

He tries to focus on the blurry vision of her. She has two heads, but that's better than four, right? "Yeah, fine." He tries to shrug it off, shrug her off. He can't find his balance. Her arm's around him again.

"Come on. Let's go home." They do.

* * *

><p>'Home' becomes the same place for both of them.<p>

"Where do you think they went?" she asks him, pouring day-old coffee into a mug. He watches her take a sip. He notices her face doesn't cringe at the bitterness of it anymore.

"Same as last time you asked," he responds calmly. This conversation has become their morning ritual for over two weeks now. He's beyond getting irritated by it.

"But 'I don't know' wasn't an answer," she points out tiredly.

"It's all we've got."

* * *

><p>They still have hope.<p>

When she points it out, he scoffs. What a cheesy thing to say.

"But true," she presses. He doesn't disagree, and he's thinking about admitting that when there's a knock on the door. Their eyes shoot up, connect.

He doesn't need to admit it. She can see it.

They walk to the door together, but he stays a step ahead. He unlocks the door slowly, opens it defensively.

"It's just me," Katherine announces, annoyed. Elena sighs.

A little more hope is lost every time she does that.

* * *

><p>"Would you quit that?" she snaps suddenly, eyes like fire. He looks at her blankly. "Saying you <em>don't know<em>. I _know _that you don't know. Can't you just make something up? Just once?"

She waits. Her eyes fill up with tears that won't fall.

He reaches for her hand. Squeezes it once, then just holds on.

"I don't want to let go," she tells him near the end of week nine. "I think it's around that time where you either let go, or you let yourself become obsessed." She watches him with a steady gaze. "I don't want to let go."

He nods, minutely. Pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, hopes she doesn't mind.

She doesn't.

It's all about the little things these days.

* * *

><p>"I really didn't need one this big." She stares at the new television fixed upon the wall of the room that has become hers over these last couple months. She didn't feel comfortable sleeping in Stefan's.<p>

They both watch the screen for a moment, pretending to actually care about what's on it.

"Sometimes it's not about what you need, but what you want," he says casually. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, then takes a step closer, rests her head on his shoulder. Neither of them move for a while.

Sometimes it's not about what you want, but what you need.

* * *

><p>"This needs more salt," he concludes, dropping the spoon back in saucepan.<p>

"Then add it," she tells him from her place at the table. She doesn't look up from her diary.

"You were in charge of sauce," he reminds her, coming up behind her and plucking the pen from her fingers.

"We both knew from the start you'd end up taking over." She tries to snatch the pen back. Fails.

He raises his eyebrows. "Don't make excuses for your shortcomings, Elena."

She laughs before grabbing salt and shaking some into the pan. Her smile fades as soon as she realizes it's there.

The glass shaker clinks against the counter when she sets it down. She stares at it, guilty.

He steps in front of her, lifts her chin.

"It's okay to laugh, Elena," he tells her, because she needs to hear it. She leans against him, he puts one arm around her waist.

It's the best they can do.

* * *

><p>"I feel like we should be doing more," she admits, setting down the paper she had been scouring for 'animal attacks'.<p>

"Like what," he mumbles. Not even a question.

She doesn't answer. He can tell she's getting frustrated, can feel her anger rising up. He lays back on her bed, crosses his arms behind his head. Waits for it to pass.

She huffs and pushes all the papers scattered around them onto the floor. Tears one or two along the way.

When she's done she lays back, too. Puts her head on his chest. Closes her eyes.

Waits for it all to pass.

* * *

><p>"When this is all over," she begins, and he immediately sends her a look that says <em>please don't continue<em>. He can hear it in her voice. She goes on anyway. "When it's all over, I don't know where things will stand, what will happen…" He waits. She takes her time. "But I just… I don't want you to think I never loved you."

He blinks slowly. Can't think of a single thing to say.

She wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him close.

He puts his arms around her waist and lets himself breathe her in.

* * *

><p>He lets out a shaky breath. His left cheek is wet - is that from tears?<p>

"Damon?" she calls from another room. He doesn't answer, but she finds him anyway. "Damon," she says again, this time alarmed.

She kneels down beside him, pulls the bottle out of his hands and puts it down far away from him. She takes his face in her hands, gets him to look at her.

He finds it hard.

"He's my brother," he forces out quietly. "And there's nothing I can do to help him."

Tears slip down her face while she kisses his away. Cheeks. Lips. Eyes.

"We'll find him," she assures him. "We'll get him back."

* * *

><p>"Where do you think they went?" she asks him one morning, taking a sip of her black coffee.<p>

He's about to say something, something like Switzerland or Milwaukee, but she's looking at him differently today. He thinks maybe she's sighed one too many times.

He takes the coffee cup from her hands, sets it gently on the counter beside her, and kisses her. Puts his hands on her hips, rubs his thumbs over the material of her shirt. He's slow and sweet. He makes her want to let go.

But more importantly, he makes her want to hold on.


End file.
